A City Dressed in Dynamite
by the.goal.is.greatness
Summary: There's nothing more exciting than a challenge... [Sherlock x Watson]


**Title:** A City Dressed in Dynamite  
**Genre:** Romance / Humor  
**Rating:** M  
**Pairing:** Sherlock x Watson  
**Spoilers:** N/A  
**Summary:** There's nothing more exciting than a challenge…  
**Word Count:** 1,604  
**Warnings:** Unclear timeline, but probably somewhere in Season 1.

**Disclaimer:** _BBC's Sherlock_ does not belong to me. The summary is a quote from the original _Sherlock Holmes_ novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**A/N:** I'm not smart, so I can no way hope to write in a level that exudes Sherlock Holmes, but I'll do my best.

* * *

The coffee shop was a blur of activity, the level of which always irritated Sherlock to no end. There was simply too much to pay attention to. There were too many people and conversations and happenings to give the level of focus he wanted to give to things that were simply (in his opinion) much more important than listening to why so-and-so's roommate was just _the worst_ ever or why the guy from accounting didn't deserve his promotion or why they should talk about seeing other people because they didn't feel that way.

John was talking.

And there was nothing in the world Sherlock enjoyed more than watching John Watson get really into the story he was telling.

Not solving cases. Not besting Moriarty or That Woman. Not irritating Lestrade or Mycroft. Not playing the violin or opium or his Mind Palace. Nothing.

When John told a story about something that really riled him up (in this case some review to one of his articles who seemed to think he was Making Everything Up), he was simply stunning. His blue eyes bright as forget-me-nots, his cheeks flushed. He practically glowed with life. It was the most intoxicating thing Sherlock had ever seen. He watched people all the time, couldn't help it, but what he wanted was to _focus_ on John.

"And then, do you know what he said? He _said_ I had _delusions of grandeur_ to make all of these… these stories up!" He makes a flabbergasted noise of disgust and settles back into his seat. "I mean, do you believe that?"

"Preposterous," he murmurs, still staring at Watson over the rim of his tea cup.

John huffs through his nose again and the sound is as interesting as everything else he does to Sherlock. Such a singularly masculine noise, just like the breadth of John's shoulders or the curve of his jaw. None of the harsh, feminine angles of Sherlock's own face. John settles back against the booth, one arm sprawled inelegantly across the back and it draws Sherlock's eye. "Well, I probably shouldn't have _blown up_ at the man." He turns his gaze to the man across from him. "What would you have done?"

The question makes Sherlock pause, because there's many things he would _like_ to do, none of which he _would_ have done because… because…

And here his genius mind grinds to a halt, because he has no answer.

He knows John's history, his past. There are no men in it. Sherlock himself, so above the mundane thoughts of gender, does not care about what a person is on the outside as compared to what they are in the inside. So many people irritate and infuriate him that the individuals are few and far between who he can stand their company, nay, even seek it out. John is one of those people. Sherlock yearns for his company, feels empty and bereft without it. His apartment feels cold without John sitting in his chair, feels too silent without the typing keys. He wants to bask in the man's company until he's drowning in it. Wants to teach him things that John hasn't even dreamt of. He could make John _writhe_, he knows, he wasn't a genius for nothing.

And now, sitting across from him in the café, John is looking at him expectantly, head cocked to the side, wearing a beguilingly innocent expression as he reveals a line of throat that Sherlock can't help but want to –

He leaves in a violent scraping of chair that causes several patrons to turn their way, but Sherlock doesn't notice. He simply needs a moment to himself, away from those blue, blue eyes, and his own spiraling thoughts. The alley behind the coffeehouse should be off limits to anyone but employees, but Sherlock is above such rules, and the owner is forever indebted to him. It's thankfully free of any personnel, so he leans against the brick and takes a deep breath, trying to center his thoughts, trying to put them away in a neatly filed cabinet in his mind labeled _Watson, John_, where no one else can see them and where they won't show on his face.

The door slamming open and closed behind him makes his eyes snap open and he's immediately confronted with irate blue eyes, staring up at him in irritation.

"What the hell?!" There's no room for Sherlock to say anything, even if he had anything to say, because John is on a tirade. "If you didn't care about what I was talking about you could have just said so instead of bolting out of there like we were having some… some lover's spat! I know you probably don't care about the boring, dull things that go on in my life, but well… that's my life! And I – "

"Don't care?" The rumbling words cut off the rest of John's rant. "Don't _care_?" Sherlock pushes himself off of the wall and begins to stalk forward, looming over John like a predator, stalking forward with long, languid strides until John is taking a step backwards for his every step forward, until his back is against the wall on the opposite side of the alley, until he's staring up at Sherlock with wide, vibrant eyes. "You cannot fathom the amount that I care."

John opens his mouth to no doubt question that cryptic statement, but only a muffled noise emerges as Sherlock uses that query to place his palms on either side of that shocked face and slant his mouth down over his partners.

There is a startled moment of shock in which John's arms fly up to grip Sherlock by the forearms, soldier's instincts taking over before his mind can process what is happening. Those hands grip him tight, trembling and unsure – Sherlock can feel the teeter-totter of his mind wavering between pushing him away (and there is no doubt in his mind that he could) and – and what?

_Distract him_, his own treacherous mind whispers to him and he is only too happy to oblige.

So he sinks into the moment, into the kiss, into his friend. He lets his long, violinist fingers trail like fine spiders down duel sides of a throat, so lightly goosebumps break out across the skin like hives. He uses his height to his advantage, pushing back until there is no space between John and the wall, no space between them, no way for John to breath unless he tilts his face up higher and breaks the kiss to gasp in Sherlock's ear or suffocate. Now that throat is rife for marking – for teeth and tongue and panting breaths; that pulse is in the perfect place to suck a mark.

The fingers on her forearms spasm and tremble.

But no, he's not finished, not until John says _no_. So fingers ghost downward over buttons and zippers and clothing, to toy at the hem of a pants line, to glide up underneath a shirt so Sherlock can feel the hitching breaths and gasps dance across that stomach. He can dip his fingers into a bellybutton at the same moment he slides his tongue back into that gasping mouth the same way he wants to – but no, not yet. Now he can arch forward, pressing the sign of his desire against a hard stomach, pressing his thighs against – yes! Against an answering hardness.

"S-Sherlock…"

It is a sin to hear his name uttered in that breathy whine.

"John…" He wants to hear more sounds like that, wants to learn something new. How to make John pant and moan and how they fit together and how to get John to say his name like that, and a thousand other ways.

But as suddenly as a gunshot, the door to the café bangs open and there is a startled exclamation by whichever waitress walked out. "Oh, shit! I am so sorry! I had no idea that – uh, yeah, never mind, I'll… go…" And the door clinks closed again.

John's eyes are darting between Sherlock and the door, no doubt torn between allying that woman's fears and then realizing how ridiculous it would be to say she hadn't interrupted anything. Sherlock can see him trying to pull hi soldier's calm and reserve over himself like a coat, so he puts his face down very close to John's, until their noses are almost touching, until they are breathing in one another's shaking exhales, until John is nearly cross-eyed trying to look him in the eye.

"Never say I do no care."

Without a backward glance, he heads back inside. But he is hyped up with adrenaline, snatching an apple from the counter with a nod at the owner, and heading straight out the door with a jaunt in his step.

He'll head back to Baker Street, and his apartment, and bid his time until John musters up his courage (and no doubt his ire) to return and fume at him. Sherlock is sure it will be glorious, and he can't wait to see what other ways he can fathom to keep John's mouth occupied.


End file.
